


The Dead are Living and the Living are Haunted.

by Zilo



Category: Supernatural, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Afterlife, Alternate Universe, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic, First Time, Friendship, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Homophobia, Hurt Daryl Dixon, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, M/M, POV Daryl, Past Character Death, Slow Build, Soul Bond, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-03-11 10:36:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 19,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3324410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zilo/pseuds/Zilo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Its the zombie apocalypse and Daryl, separated from his group (who he presumes are dead) runs into Dean Winchester. Dean is half mute and dealing with the sorrow of losing Sam but the two decide to team up together to survive.  </p><p>(Set in Supernatural around Season 4-5ish...  Set in Walking Dead mid season 4ish.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Daryl is fucked.  Not having a good time, enjoying himself with a warm body fucked, but truly in the deep shit going to die in the next five minutes fucked.

He knows it was a miscalculation to be this far out late at night but the prospect of the elementary school having supplies had been worth the risk. Or that’s what he’d been telling himself when he’d set out here. He hadn't counted on the herd of walkers that would be flooding the place.

He’s been traveling alone too long and wonders if some part of him is setting himself up to get whacked. It’s the last coherent thought he has for the next twenty minutes as he pushes back against the throng of bodies and grapples with his knife trying to get as many in the brain as he can. He manages to get a small semi- circle of space around him when he hears a shout behind him.

It’s human.

He sees the flash of yellow in the corner of his eye and sees the movement and starts running after it. There is no time to weigh his options and wonder if he wants to align himself with someone new and take on all their bullshit. There is only a simple acknowledgment of not being entirely alone and not really wanting to go out like this tonight.

There is a guy hauling ass in front of him who climbs up onto a busted out school bus that looks like an urban rusted out whale in the middle of the parking lot. He turns and lays his arm down wordlessly as Daryl reaches its edge and they both grunt with the effort of pulling him up on the roof.

“Thanks man.” He pants and wipes the sweat off his palm on his pants.

The other guy just nods at him and starts pacing the perimeter of the roof, hawk eyeing the space around them. The herd isn’t crowding the bus yet but they’re close enough that they have effectively trapped themselves. It’s still an improvement on the situation and Daryl could laugh at how fucked up that is.

Welcome to Zombie Island, free vacation to hell.

Later he’ll find it weird that they never actually had much of a conversation but at the time it makes sense to him. They’re at war and for now it’s a silent agreement that strength in numbers is their best option.

It’s about an hour of sweating his balls off and regrouping his thoughts before he breaks the silence. “Alright, we can’t stay here.” He stands up. “I have a plan. It’s gross but it works.”

They drag the half gnawed off body, crushed in the bus door, onto the roof. Daryl explains the tactic of making themselves smell like death. He’s not sure what he wanted the other guy to do but when he resignedly cracks open the rib cage and only winces a little as he scoops dark liquids out Daryl isn’t sure if he’s impressed or disturbed.

They paint their bodies in black blood and twine intestines around their wrists like grotesque fashion bracelets. This is war.

It works.

They manage to travel among the herd, slow and stupid, like broken robots. They stagger at an awkward half running gait as they get closer to the tree line. The man breaks into a run first and Daryl follows him. It’s mindless and joyful. He is alive. He has made it to see another sunrise. They stop at the edge of a clearing to catch their breath.

“Thought that might have been it for me.” Daryl pants, keeping his eyes on the ground as he gains his breath back. “Name’s Daryl. You traveling alone? Got people waiting on you?”

When he doesn’t get an answer his eyes travel back up and focus on a pair of sharp green eyes studying him coolly.

He feels the shift in mood instantly. The joy is sucked out of the moment entirely. The hairs on the back of his neck are at attention. The guy’s mouth is a flat line and his eyes are shadowed, untrusting. Dangerous. No guarantees here. Daryl steps back.

People. People are fucked up. The dead are living and the living are haunted. He holds his arms out palms open. Not a threat.

“Okay then. I’ll go mine. You go yours.” He backs away and watches as the coldness peels back to more of a neutral distrust.

He doesn’t turn his back on him until there is a great distance between them.


	2. Chapter 2

Five days later the guy saves his ass from a throng of walkers that surprise him in a church.

He’s pinned beneath a four hundred pound beer bellied trucker, who is thrashing so much he can’t get the right angle to brain him with his knife.  The dead guy is all rotting flesh and gnashing of his five teeth, when his head explodes in a shower of brains and bone fragments.

Daryl’s scale of gross has significantly changed since the start of the apocalypse but this still ranks high. It’s gross.  He wipes brain juice out of his eye and squints up as the body is rolled off of him. Hazel eyes is staring down at him, his face arranged almost in a smirk with the way his eyes are crinkled but it doesn't touch his mouth. He leans his forearm down to help him to his feet.

He takes the offered arm and it links in his mind to the previous time they met. “You followed me?” He doesn't mean to sound so ungrateful he’s just annoyed at himself for needing to be ‘saved.’  The man gazes at him intensely and then nods. He can’t hold the look though and his eyes skitter away to look wildly around the church.

Silent fucker. It strikes him then that he’s never heard him talk. “I mean, thanks.”

He brushes past him and retrieves his arrows out of the heads of three bodies on the floor. He hadn't been doing that bad before fatty had pinned him. He goes and stands next to the trucker’s squashed mess of a head. The blood is splattered all over the place.

“How’d you do that?” He glances up to see the weapon in question. It’s similar to his bow but the darts are a series of tightly packed needles that explode on impact. It’s simple and looks homemade. “Impressive.”

The guy coughs and then in a rough voice finally speaks, “M’ Dean.” He doesn't quite met his gaze but his eyes sort of zig-zag and then try to focus on him but settle somewhere around his chin.

Daryl fleetingly wonders how long it’s been since this guy has spoken to anyone. He can hold his own in fight, no doubt, but rolls off waves of awkward when he has to interact with anyone.

Standing this close he can see that Dean is a couple inches taller than him. He has freckles on his nose and a white scar running from his left ear across his throat. He’s dirty, probably only has the clothes on his back. He doesn't look military but he carries himself with practiced certainty.

The guy knows his shit.

Dean then haltingly pushes out the longest sentence that Daryl will hear from him for weeks, “Don’t want travel… alone anymore.”

It’s a sentiment that Daryl totally gets. It would be a relief to be able to sleep more than a couple hours at a time. He doesn’t really trust this guy but he’s proven himself to be tough and useful. He’ll keep his eye on him, see if he turns out to be a psycho or not.

This is how they end up traveling together.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s not Daryl’s way to be the talkative one. He is the observer. He blends into a crowd. That is the best way to figure people out, to truly know them. Don’t stand out. Be safe. It’s just the two of them here though. Dean and himself. And there is nowhere to blend into. There is the silence in his head or there is the space between them.

He knows Dean is quiet because he’s hurting, wounded from too much loss. He gets that, understands it completely but if he sits in his head too long he feels the weight of his own losses. Merle. Carol. Sophia. Hershel. Beth.  It’s like a cancer of the mind, it eats away at him. He simply cannot afford to lose focus.

It surprises him but Daryl finds himself taking the lead, asking questions, drawing Dean out, wanting to know more.

Dean will talk in short bursts, share a story here or there. It is slow but the trust between them builds.

He talks to Dean about things he notices, stupid things like the names of the trees and some of the plants they pass in the woods. He points out berries they can eat or the colors of the poisonous snakes to watch out for.

Dean nods along. Daryl isn't sure how much of the time he’s actually listening until one day he waves an old dusty guide book in his face.

They’re passing through a deserted town and Dean emerges from one of the store fronts. He bumps shoulders with Daryl and holds out the book. The cover says _Boy Scout’s Survival Journal to the Southeast_. Daryl can hear the joke in his silent posture but he drives it home by saying; “After I finish reading this I won’t need your tips anymore.”

Daryl snorts a small laugh and glances up to see Dean smirking. “Yeah, alright. There’s gonna be a test if you want any badges though, _Boy Scout_.” He jokes back.

Dean actually laughs.

It’s the first time Daryl’s ever heard him laugh.

 

~ // ~

 

It’s been a month and Daryl is starting to navigate Dean's secrets, to know when to unravel a thread or when to retreat and let it drop. 

He hears Dean say ‘we’ a couple times and wants to ask further about Dean’s brother but knows nothing will clam him up quicker than that topic. 

Dean can’t talk about his brother.  He carries his grief like a shroud that chokes the words from his lips and causes him to disappear inside his head.  Sometimes for days. 

Dean had a brother.  Now he doesn't. 

Daryl had a brother too, now he doesn't either. 

He gets it.

 

~ // ~

 

Daryl isn’t blind.  He’s noticed that Dean is an attractive guy, even hiding beneath a scrappy beard his mouth could be called pretty.  He’s a little on the skinny side, but his body is tanned and muscled.  His mind is sharp and always alert.  He is resourceful and creative when it comes scavenging, like he’s spent his whole life just scrapping by.  He is as good a tracker as Daryl, maybe even better.  Georgia isn’t his local home ground but he learns things fast and no matter how many times they joke he pays attention to what Daryl tells him. 

“I pissed on one of those red and black snakes you told me about.  The ones with the gold rings?  Scared the shit out of me, man.  Survive the walkers and then get bitch slapped by nature.  Yeah, that’d just be my luck.”

Dean is crazy, no doubt about it, but mostly good crazy.  Have Daryl’s back no matter what crazy.  Kill every last motherfucking walker that comes for their throats and claws numbly at their faces crazy.       

He is a good companion to have at his side, not so much for long talks by the fire.  Daryl is okay with that. 

After being separated from his last group he didn’t expect to find anyone else he could count on.  He almost forgot what trust felt like.   


	4. Chapter 4

 

They’ve been traveling on foot for weeks without a proper place to rest.  So when they first spot the white farm house, on the edge of the marsh, it looks like an oasis in the desert.  Possibly an occupied oasis but it’s worth checking out to find out for sure. 

Daryl keeps his bow trained in front of him but turns his head back to raise an eyebrow at Dean and whisper “Wanna play house?”

Dean rolls his eyes but plays along and asks; “With you?  But who’s going to wash the dishes?”

They both take in the dirty windows and overgrown cattails poking out from under the porch.  The place looks more like a museum frozen in time then a horror movie.  It doesn’t take long to find out there are no current occupants. 

They find two ancient looking corpses covered in dust and cobwebs in the basement.  They died long before the plague hit by the looks of it.  An adult, probably a male Dean says judging by ‘grandpa’s overalls’ and a dog.  The dog lays curled up against the man’s torso, head resting on his arm.  It’s oddly peaceful looking. 

They agree that since they’re going to stay in the house for a while a proper burial is appropriate.  They find a spot on the outskirts of the property near a broken shed.

Dean rests on the handle of the shovel in between digging.  He seems pretty expert at digging graves and it depresses Daryl a little to think of how good he’s been getting at making wooden crosses, a regular fucking carpenter. 

Daryl jams the wood down into the dirt and pebbles and asks.  “You believe in ghosts?”

Dean freezes and then looks up at him with an odd look on his face.  “Why?”  He asks carefully.

“Never mind.”  Daryl laughs self-consciously and starts busying himself with moving some of the big boulders out of the way.  He doesn’t want Dean to think he’s losing it or cracking up.  He still can hear Merle in his head sometimes though.  He knows that it’s just the part of his brother he still remembers but sometimes it grates on him, like right now.  Merle is bitching about not getting a funeral. 

_You don’t know this old asshole.  He gets a grand funeral and I get left behind to be picked apart by walkers and crows? I’m family!   Some fucking brother you are._  

There had been no time when Merle had died for him to stop.  Now they had time.  It’s the simple truth but it feels shitty.     

When they’re done they both stand there quietly.  “We should say something?” Dean asks. 

Daryl nods but no words come. 

Dean mumbles, half sings; “There'll be peace when you are done… Lay your weary head to rest…”  He trails off awkwardly and Daryl half smiles as he remembers the song. 

“Kansas?” 

“Yeah.  Good music.”  He smirks as he slings the shovel over his shoulder and starts a slow walk back to the house.    

 

~ // ~

 

“You think he just died like that?  Fell down the stairs and couldn’t get up again?” Daryl pokes the fire they have roaring in the fireplace in front of them.  Its night time and they’re huddled like old men with their rocking chairs pulled too close to the flames and moth eaten blankets draped about their shoulders. 

Dean shrugs, “Probably a heart attack.” and then frowns.  “Hey, hey… stop.”  He takes the fire poker from his hand and rests it back against the brick.  “Stop messing with it.  I had it perfect.”  

Daryl ignores his fussing and pulls out the two cans he found in the pantry and hands one over.  “Found us some dinner.  Hope you like Beans.”

“No can opener huh?”  Dean ventures one arm out of his blanket to root around on the floor for his hunting knife.  “I’ll look for one tomorrow.  Old man had to have one somewhere.”

He ends up spraying bean juice all over himself and his blanket in the process of getting the cans open.  The pouty glower that he directs at the beans keeps Daryl snickering for much longer than necessary.

After their meal they drift into a comfortable silence and Daryl falls asleep.  He’ll later blame the dream on his conversation with Dean while they buried the old man.

He sees the house again, when it was new.  It smells like pine and fresh paint.  He chases rabbits and squirrels and the grass around the marsh is a lot taller than him.  Dean is with him.  Dean is his world, he loves him more than he has words for.  They watch sunsets turn to night with dancing fireflies and biting mosquitos.  Daryl can smell dirt and hear Dean’s rumbling voice calling his name and it feels like home. 

The dream shifts through time with smells and colors and he feels age growing in pinches and pains in his body.  One night he loses track of Dean and the rolling anxiety almost makes him sick.  When he finally finds him, it is at the bottom of the basement stairs.  He’s cold and not moving, he smells different.  Daryl isn’t worried though.  He lays his head against Dean’s arm and is filled with calm and purpose.  He’d rather close his eyes and rest here with his friend then be anywhere else.   

Daryl wakes with tears in his eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

 

Daryl is drunk.  Not stupid get jumped by a walker drunk, but hazy, everything is fuzzy, who gives a fuck drunk.  “You’re… military, right?  FBI or something?  You seem like that sometimes.”

Dean tips back the bottle of shitty brandy they found and some of it leaks down his chin.  He is not drunk.  Daryl can see the sharpness in his eyes as he looks at him.  Either his tolerance is really high or he’s been faking how much he’s been drinking and has been letting Daryl have most of it.  Daryl suspects it is the second but doesn’t hold it against him.  They’ve been holed up in this house in the middle of nowhere and Dean’s been unravelling the tension between his shoulders, smoothing out the crease between his eyes, letting go bit by bit. 

Now he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and says; “Nah.  My dad was though.  Not FBI but,”   He takes a breath and then like plunging off a cliff he adds more; “Marines.  Raised us strict… taught us how to… handle ourselves.”

Daryl snorts “Oh yeah, that sounds… fun.”  He can’t help imagining his father’s own breed of ‘strict.’  Scars.  Burns.  Drunken screaming.  Bullshit.  He holds his disbelief in his voice.  Despite those memories he still feels good.  Dean is opening up, getting more comfortable with him.  They have a place to rest for a while.  Life isn’t horrible and it feels like winning something he wasn’t expecting.      

Dean fiddles with his shirt sleeve, uncharacteristically uneasy and keeps talking, the words tumble from his lips like secrets dragged across gravel.  “My mom died in a… she was murdered when I was a kid.  It made my dad different.  He made us like soldiers… to protect ourselves.  Hunters.”

“Huh.  My mom died when I was young too.”  Daryl has chills.  The similarities in their lives seems wrong.  Fucked up.  “No one to blame but her though, fell asleep with a cigarette in her lips and burnt the whole damn house down.  World was shitty before this virus ever came along.”  He feels his buzz fading.  He knew Dean would be full of sorrow and pain.  He didn’t know it would be so close to his own.  “Wait, did you say… hunter?” 

He catches on the word ‘hunter’ and suddenly has a memory that he thought he’d buried deeply.  It had been a nightmare, something to file into the back of his brain and never look at again.  Being reminded of it now is like getting punched in the stomach, all the wind knocked out of him.  “I’ve meet hunters before.”  He narrows his eyes and tries to study Dean’s face and match it to the ones in his memory.  The memory is in bright techni-color in his head now, all the details filling in.  He’d been 15 at the time but it felt like three lifetimes ago.  Dean doesn’t look anything like any of the guys in his head, too young but the more he thinks about it the more it seems right.  Hunter.  Dean is a hunter.

Dean cocks his head and searches his gaze waiting for him to say more.  After a beat he prompts him. “Yeah?”

Daryl hears himself say, “Vampires.”  He’s starring into nothing and wants to stop talking but the words keep coming.   “I should have known no girl that hot would have given a shit about me.  I was a teenager, stupid shit for brains.  I thought it was a joke.  Some sex thing.  I went back to her place and there were all these people there, wasted out junkies.  These guys busted in.  They called it a nest and started slaughtering everyone.  The chick went nuts.  Her face changed… teeth all over, like a shark, ripped one of the guy’s throat out.  Shit like that you just… forget.”  Daryl laughs hollowly.  “They thought I might have been bitten and wanted to cut me open too.  I convinced them I was ok.  They let me go eventually.”

Dean hands him the bottle of brandy wordlessly and watches him suck it down.  “Vampires, demons, werewolves, ghosts, evil motherfuckers, killing them… it’s what I know.  Who I… was.  I hunted them.  This is different.  They just keep coming, people we knew, people we love, everyone turns.” 

“Werewolves?  Really?”  Daryl laughs hysterically because it IS funny.  It’s a mess.  It’s the end of the world.


	6. Chapter 6

It’s different between them after that.  Dean begins to truly open up to him.  He even talks about Sam.  Sam, his brother who died.  He wasn’t with him when he got sick.  They had quit hunting together and his brother had wanted a normal life.  Dean didn’t even know exactly when it happened because they had been only checking in with each other every month or so.  Sam had died in the first wave of sickness.  The ones that got sick and died in a day or two, didn’t come back, just died of the flu.  Sam had died without him and Dean hates himself for it.  Daryl can hear it in his voice, see it written all over his face.  

“My brother was a… he turned.” Daryl can see Merle’s blood filled eyes in his head as he speaks.  “I wouldn’t let him stay like that though, you know?”  He doesn’t regret it.  There is nothing to regret.  It just hurts, like an open wound that won’t scar up. 

Dean nods silently.

“His name was Merle.  He was… we weren’t close like you and Sam but he was my brother.  I fucking miss him and I hate that he’s gone.”  Daryl doesn’t say much else about him.  It’s too hard.   

It’s Dean’s turn to fill the space between them now and he picks it up.  Vampires, werewolves, ghosts, wendigos, creatures Daryl’s never even heard of.  Dean tells him about his hunts.  War stories is more like it.  He shows him his scars too, like a map across his skin that proves the wildness of his tales. 

“Sam did some shitty stiches on this one.”  He flexes his thumb and points to a series of white marks cross hatching the webbing of his index finger.  He’s smiling.

Daryl snorts.  None of his scars made for good conversation but Dean’s idea of a fond memory seemed pretty fucked up.  “You’re crazy man, actually going out looking for all those things?  I sure as shit hope I never meet another vampire in my entire life.”

“Yeah well you won’t.  They’re gone.”

“How’s that?”

“Yeah, it’s a… fucked up story.” 

Daryl wonders if he wants to hear it.  The amount of crazy that Dean has lived through would be hard to believe if he hadn’t seen some of it with his own eyes.  “All your stories are fucked up.  What happened?”

“They left.  All the monsters got on the monster bus and left.  It was supposed to be our chance to start over, a normal life.  My friend Cas promised us.  He found a tablet, a sort of how-to pamphlet on opening a doorway, shove all supernatural creatures in it and wipe the earth clean of them.  He had to go with them though, always some kind of catch.  But he did it.  Fucking said his goodbyes and left.  Then this.  This disease happens and there’s no deals.  No one to call on to help.  No demons, no angels, no puritan gods, no magic.  Not even death to be pissed at.  Just people.  Just people dying.”

“All this?  Dead people killing, and not dying, it isn’t supernatural?”

Dean rolls his shoulders in a shrug and stares intensely at a spot beyond his shoulder.

Daryl is used to this look and figures the conversation is over.  He’s surprised when he hears a defeated sigh and then a muttered; “I don’t know, man.  I wish I did.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Opps! I posted chapter 7 last night but forgot to add another scene to it. So this is the longer updated version.

 Daryl returns from his latest hunt in high spirits.  He caught a rabbit this time, not just a couple squirrels.  He finds Dean in the kitchen pantry stacking cans of beans.  Old dude loved his beans. 

“Hey, caught us some bugs bunny for dinner.”

Dean spins around, startled to see him standing so closely but recovers quickly and even smiles when he sees the brown fuzz of the dead rabbit.  “Guess that makes me the wife.”  He relaxes back against the counter looking for all the world like being the ‘wife’ was a great place to be. 

Daryl feels himself blush and wishes something witty and smart would come out of his mouth.  Instead he just laughs nervously.  “Yep.”  Dean has been doing this lately.  Joking more, flirting maybe.  

“Leave em’ on the counter.  I’ll cook us up some rabbit-squirrel stew that’ll taste better than… than beans.”  He smiles again, achingly charming.  His eyes zero in on ragged cloth wrapped around Daryl’s left hand and he frowns, protective mode erasing all ease.  “Your hand.  What happened?  You run into trouble when you were out?”

“No.”  He peels back the bit of his t-shirt he had wrapped around the cut to assure him it’s not too deep or a bite.  “Cut myself on some barbed wire.  Stupid shit.  Saw two walkers but they were across the river, far away.  I didn’t go near them.”

Dean inspects the cut and nods.  “Yeah, don’t take any risks you don’t need too.  You need to keep this clean.  Don’t let it get infected.”

Daryl rolls his eyes inwardly but manages not to let it show on his face.  He can handle himself just fine.  He doesn’t need a lecture about safety or first aid.  He’d normally be pissed at anyone that tried to tell him how to handle himself but he knows this is just how Dean is.  It’s not an insult.  They’ve both lost too many people, they only have each other.  This is Dean’s annoying way of showing him he gives a shit. 

“Okay mom.”  He’s not going to let it go without a jab though.

                                                                                                                                 

~ // ~

“Hey.”  Daryl gets up close in Dean’s personal space.  He doesn’t have a plan.  Doesn’t even know what he’s going to do until it happens.   

He’s been feeling an itch under his skin the last week with Dean’s flirting and brash gazes turned up a notch, no longer skirting the boundaries of normal guy code.  It’s driving him crazy, making him restless.  He wants him.  He probably shouldn’t but he does.   He’s almost certain that Dean is trying to draw him out, force him to make the first move.                

He might have known when he first met Dean that they were driving towards this moment.  At the same time he can’t believe he’s even doing this. 

There weren’t other guys.  Not since he’d been twenty and his friend had drunkenly come onto him in a bathroom.  The guy didn’t speak to him the next day.  Friendship over.  He lived in the south, being gay wasn’t something you ‘tried out.’  He always liked women, likes women still, but here he is, tracing the lines of their friendship, feeling a sharp spark of desire and wanting to chase after it. 

Dean is a charming fucker when he wants to be.  It’s as if a part of him has come alive again, talking about his hunts has brought a new level of animation to their conversations.   Daryl feels the threads of his defenses weakening under the focus, the trust and loyalty built between them only making it harder to resist.

He brushes his knuckles across Dean’s belt buckle and traces his thumb down the inside of his forearm.  The touch is feather light as his eyes slowly drag up to meet the laser green gaze and waits.  Offering.

Dean waits a beat, his eyes smoldering and then both his hands surge up to grab at Daryl’s jaw.  There’s a second as he spins his body around and pushes him hard against the doorway that Daryl is suddenly unsure but then his mouth is on his and he’s kissing him like it’s the best thing he’s had in years.

Bingo. 

Dean takes and takes.  He consumes him.   

 

~ //~

 

Dean goes to his knees straight away, like it isn’t a big deal.  He sucks his cock and he is good, not too good, like an expert, good like maybe he’s done this before.  Daryl wants it to last, but he can’t.  He comes too soon, it makes him feel like a teenager. 

He can’t talk.  He feels completely undone, lost. It takes him a couple minutes to come back from orgasm brain land.  Dean is leaning against the doorframe jacking himself off.  His head is thrown back and his mouth is parted with a bit of pink tongue resting on his bottom lip.  It’s totally hot but Daryl can’t help thinking that he seems like a different person entirely.  He’s raw, open.  Beautiful.

“Fuck.  Com’re.”  He fumbles to get his pants buttoned so he doesn’t trip over himself.  His hand lands on a sharp hip as his other hand is maneuvered to firmly clasp Dean’s nuts as he keeps jacking himself. 

Dean tips his head down after a minute and seals their mouths together, pulls his lower lip into his mouth, biting and sweeping his tongue thoroughly into his mouth and then comes with a soft silent shudder.


	8. Chapter 8

 

~//~  

He doesn’t hear Merle’s taunting voice in his head until after as he washes Dean’s come off his hands.  Its white noise in his ears and then the roar of his brother’s vitriol and disgust devours him.   

_I always knew you were soft, got a pussy between those legs.  You’re a dirty little faggot now.  He’s pretty isn’t he? Like a woman.  Psycho though, you better watch your back, boy.  Get it?  Watch your back?  Angel wings for the fairy._

Dean cuts into Merle’s tirade by pulling him into the present with a thumb on the pulse point of his wrist, fingers loosely circling.  His eyes are brilliant pools of hazel as he holds his gaze.  Daryl feels himself slowly click back into place.  He’s in a house.  Dean is with him.  They just had sex.  Merle is not here.  Merle is dead.  Merle is an asshole and needs to shut his god damn mouth because he doesn’t know everything. 

He blinks his eyes a couple times and then rotates his wrist and slips his palm into Dean’s.  Dean squeezes his hand and looks back at him calmly.  He doesn’t look freaked out.  He looks content, reassuring.  Daryl allows himself to be pulled back towards the room Dean has claimed as his own.

It must be showing on his face how out of it he is because Dean doesn’t say a word, as if he’s a spooked animal.  He doesn’t let go of his hand either.

The walls have flowery grandma wallpaper peeling off and it smells faintly of mold but the dust is a little less thick here and Daryl realizes Dean must have put a lot of effort into scrubbing it down.   

Daryl lets himself be maneuvered and it’s like breathing that he finds himself being the little spoon on the bed.  It’s oddly natural to have Dean’s body pressed up close against his back.  He barely notices the heavy blue afghan blanket as it brushes his chin and settles over them.  There’s a bloom of pressure in his rib cage, hot like something uncomfortable and good unfurling, kicked loose inside him.  This is what real risk is, being open to someone, being vulnerable, letting himself be seen.  He can feel a knot in his throat that wants to crawl out with horrible choking sobs but he keeps it in.

This is harder than all the blood he’s ever shed, all the bodies, all the murder they’ve endured to be here.  This is knowing the pain of rejection, of abandonment and reaching out anyway, hoping that it’ll be worth it.  It should matter more that it is another man but it doesn’t.  It’s the feeling of vulnerability that makes Daryl feel so naked and lost. 

He feels heat spreading out from where ever they touch.  Dean rests his forehead against the back of his neck and ghosts a couple deep steadying breaths across his skin.  This isn’t easy for either of them. 

Daryl feels his doubts swirl around him and funnel downwards.  It feels worth it, so he’s going to give it everything he’s got.  Merle and his shit be damned, pussy or no.  This feels real. 

The sensation of Dean’s fingers scarping down his skull grounds him back in his body.  The digits dig in behind the ridges of his ear, rubbing circles against the tightness at his temples.  Dean’s voice rumbles past his ear; “Go to sleep, man.”

Dean is taking care of him again.  This is his way.  Daryl catches one of the hands near his ear and rolls over to face him.  Dean’s eyes are arranged in a smile but his bottom lip is twisted and caught between his teeth.  He looks a little unsure so Daryl kisses him.  He keeps the kiss slow, languid, they have all the time in world.  When he pulls back he grins with his eyes closed and bumps his nose against Dean’s cheek.  “This is good.”  He says with the smile still in his voice.

“Yeah.  It will be.”  Dean wraps his arms around him again and they pull the blanket back up over their shoulders.


	9. Chapter 9

Dean kisses him breathless, pushes him hard up against the house.  Grinds their bodies together like he’s trying to make him come in his pants.  It’s dangerous with them out in the open like this and it takes all Daryl’s willpower to pull his mouth away and pant; “Inside. Get in the house.”

They stumble like horny mindless teenagers into the living room.  Dean rips Daryl’s t-shirt off like he’s in a rush. 

“You trying to make a porno out in the front yard?”  Daryl asks sarcastically as Dean sucks welts down his neck.  There’s a rumbled laugh against his collarbone and Daryl feels the raw drag of stubble and then a tongue licks at his nipple and teeth follow the same path, somewhat roughly.  “Shhhit.”

“Yeah, maybe.”  Dean is kneeling in front of him, working on the button of his jeans as he glances up and says with an evil smirk; “We’ll call it… Two Rednecks Go Gay.” 

Daryl snorts.  “Fuck you.”  Dean is trying to piss him off. 

“What?  You wanted to call it The Sperminator?”  His eyes flash and he puts his tongue flat against the half pulled down fly of Daryl’s jeans teasingly.

“I bet that’s a real thing, huh?  The Sperminator.  You’re an encyclopedia of porn.  Did you actually do anything before the turn?” He’s not serious because they both know Dean did a lot of things and most of them weren’t very enjoyable.

 It’s the edge that Dean has right now that lets him know what he wants.  He’s trying to needle his way into Daryl space, just enough that he’ll push back and take control.  He grabs at Dean’s neck and molds his hand around his ear and jaw.  “You’re not getting me naked that easily.”  It’s a game, one he knows how to play.  

He pulls at the bottom hem of Dean’s shirt and they both wrestle a little to get it off him.  “My turn.”  He shakes dark hair out of his eyes and pushes Dean against the floor, his knees bracketing on either side as he leans down and plants bruising purple hickeys on the seam of his hip.

They’ve done this a couple times now and Daryl knows how Dean likes it.  It’s not all the time, but sometimes, he likes to be held down, bitten, forced to come in a quivering raw mess.

When Dean whimpers, on the edge of his orgasm, and bumps his hips in tiny controlled circles, Daryl lets his dick slide from his mouth.  He pushes his pants past his own hips and kicks them off, leaving them in a rumpled heap.  He grabs a fist full of Dean’s hair and tips his throat back as he slides his hand between their bodies to pull their dicks together in a firm wet, slip-slide.   It’s a steady grinding rhythm that has him coming silently with his mouth hanging open and eyes squeezed shut.  Dean’s body is taught beneath him and then limp and wrung out with the release of his own orgasm.        

Daryl gentles his hand on Dean’s hair and slumps uselessly on top of him.

Dean grunts with the weight of him and after a couple seconds rolls them both to the side.  He plants a quick kiss to his temple and breathes a sigh out against his cheek with a muttered;   “Fucking awesome.” 

It’s a short while later, after a half assed clean up job that finds them stretched out in a lazy heap on the old blue sofa.  It bows with their weight, rolling their bodies together into a tangle of legs and elbows.  Daryl balances his weight against Dean’s hips and is wedged somewhat on his side on top of him.  He holds his index and middle finger against his mouth and sighs a little.

“Wishing for a smoke again?”  Dean’s eyes sparkle knowingly.

“I quit.”  He scowls a little and taps his mouth a couple times absently.

Dean smiles.  “Yeah, you mean you ran out.  It’s good though.  That shit’ll kill you.”  He says it with forced glee.  They both know how short and brutal their lives are likely to be.  It would be a luxury to die of lung cancer.

Daryl rolls his eyes.  “Yeah, my top priority.  You never bought into the Marlboro man shit?”

“My dad would have killed me.  I was very ‘Yes, sir’ for a long time.”  He grimaces a little looking almost ashamed of his lack of rebellious youth then shrugs.  “I got away with other crazy shit, some things are easier to hide from the old man.  I tried pot a couple times.  It made me paranoid as fuck, yeah, no thanks.  I’ve seen enough horrors without drugs.  Good whiskey though… there’s a sweet lady I miss.” 

Daryl has an image of drinking shots of Maker’s Mark and Black Label with Dean and then fucking against a pool table.  It’s a quick fantasy and he files the image away in the back of his mind and hopes he can come close to making it happen one day.  “Whiskey is alright, moonshine is good too.”

“Moonshine?  You are from the hills man, old school hick.”  His smile is wide and friendly, with an edge of admiration that doesn’t set Daryl off at the comment.

“Merle was dealin since I was thirteen.  I tried everything.  Almost everything.  I took X once by accident.  I thought it was pain killers for a headache.”

“Nasty surprise.” Dean grimaces.

“I ended up humping a tree or something.  Blacked out, woke up half naked in the woods next morning.”

“Are you kidding me?  That’s horrible dude.”

Daryl shrugs.  “Guess I was lucky I didn’t get eaten by a… what? Wendigo?”

“Yeah, forest cannibal sons of bitches.  They live in the mountains usually, like caves and shit.”

They lapse into a comfortable silence and Daryl reaches out to trace the spidery white line that splays out across Den’s throat with the tips of his fingers.  It’s one of the first things he noticed about Dean and he hasn’t heard the story yet.  The skin is slightly raised and he can feel Dean swallow under the pressure.  “Vampire?”  He asks quietly still marveling at the delicacy of the scar.

“No.  Human.”

Daryl glances up to see if he offended him, if his one word answer is actually code word for ‘shut up, stop asking’ but Dean’s eyes are clear so after a beat he asks “Walker?”

“Witch.”

“Like angry green skinned bitch in a black pointy hat?”  He sees the green faced lady from the wizard of Oz in his head laughing and screaming about flying monkeys.

Dean snorts a laugh as if the image can be seen on his face and says; “You got the bitch part right but that’s about it.  All the witches I met looked like regular people, no green skin and warts.  Actually half the time they looked like bored house wives.  The suburbs was a hot bed for black magic asshats murdering their neighbors over useless shit.”

“So, you’re saying a suburban mom did this?”  He squints in disbelief.

“Well… It wasn’t like she overpowered me.  She put voodoo witch roofies in my coffee while I was interviewing her about another murder.  I got lucky and Sam put it together and ended up ganking her before she finished the ritual.  That’s why the scar looks weird, it was a magic soul draining thing.”

Daryl nods and clicks his tongue in the back of his throat.  “I hate it when someone tries to drain my soul for a voodoo ritual.”  He manages to keep from smirking while he says it.

“Dude you’re making fun of me here but that was like every other Thursday for us.”  His eyes turn shadowed.  Daryl feels Dean’s mood shift suddenly, the easy humor evaporates and a heaviness settles between them.  “When this shit rolled out… I was done.  Without Sammy fighting by my side… didn’t seem worth it.”  He folds his fingers into a gun shape and points it to his forehead.  His gaze is hollowed out, empty.

“Lotta people seemed to agree with that one.”  Daryl remembers seeing a friend, which is a very lose term for one of the guys who used to hang out with Merle, blow his brains out right in front of him.  He’d been hysterical at the time, yelling about having to shoot his mom after she attacked him.  It was when the turn first hit, before anyone really knew how wide spread things were.

“Yeah, a lotta people went out like that.  I didn’t do it obviously.  Didn’t know why at the time, something just kept me… moving forward, kept me fighting.”  

He won't come out and say it but Daryl knows what he's thinking.  He’s glad to be here now.   

Dean holds his gaze a second longer and then kisses him.            

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wouldn't mind getting a beta for grammar and sentence structure if anyone is interested.


	10. Chapter 10

~ // ~

They’re lying in bed together.  Its late morning.  Dean runs his hand through Daryl’s longish tangled hair.  “You should cut it.  It’s too long.”

Daryl pushes the sweaty strands off his forehead and says; “I’ll think about it.”  He smirks and adds; “Maybe you should try shaving.”

Dean breaths a soft laugh.  “What, you don’t like my beard?” 

“Did I say that?  Nah, that patchy red scrap growing on your face looks great.”  He laughs as Dean elbows him in the ribs.

 “You’re an asshole.” Dean rolls his eyes good naturedly. 

“Its fine if you want to be a lumberjack.” 

“What?  Like Paul Bunyun?  Alright man.  I know I saw a pair of scissors in here, maybe even a razor.  You wanna play hair salon?  I’m game.  Let’s do this.  My beard for your locks of love.”     

Dean is better at cutting hair then Daryl expected.  He actually doesn’t look like he got into a fight with a lawnmower like he was imagining. 

“I used to cut Sammy’s hair when we were kids.”

“My mom cut my hair a couple times.”  It’s an old memory and it makes him smile.  He can hear her voice chastising him for squirming while she evened up the sides.  “The nearest barber was miles from our home.  I guess I got used to it being shaggy.”  Daryl runs his hand over his neck again searching for the phantom hairs causing him to itch.

They’re outside on the front porch and he watches Dean kick the remaining dark fuzz off the end of the porch with his boot.

“Do I get a tip?  For doing an extra good job?”  Dean asks with a leer, his eyebrow raised. 

“Yeah, here’s a tip: don’t cut yourself when you shave.” 

Dean rolls his eye and frowns in mock disappointment.  “Aww.”

 

~ // ~

It’s too hot out.  The air is heavy and oppressive.  They’re stretched out along the bank of a stream with their toes dipped in the shallow pools, trying out the shitty fishing poles Daryl crafted earlier in the day. 

The bugs fly around their heads but it’s early in the season and they aren’t too bad yet.  It’s slightly cooler in the shade by the water so it seems worth a couple bug bites.  Daryl slaps his sweaty arm and is gratified to see a black smear from the squished insect.   He scans the opposite bank for the millionth time but doesn’t see anything or anyone.  They had picked this spot on purpose because of the way the trees thinned, making it harder for a walker to surprise them.  It’s habit though, the openness makes him uneasy.    

“I used to do this all the time as a kid.  ‘cept if I fell asleep the worst that could happen was a shitloada mosquito bites and a sunburn.”  He digs his toes in the mud and chews thoughtfully on a piece of grass.  Dean is in a mood today, crabby and complaining about being too hot.  Daryl thinks it’s probably something else that is bothering but if it isn’t they’re going to have a bitch of a summer.      

“We should find a walker and use it as fish bait, like dangle some fingers.” Dean says petulantly as he glares at the flat surface of the stream.  “Maybe we’d get more bites.”  He tries to recast his line with an aggressive arm throw but it’s a complete waste because the hook slips off and makes a quiet plop as it falls in the water.  “Shit.”    

Daryl shakes his head and watches him splash deeper into the water to retrieve the twisted piece of metal. “Well, if that didn’t scare the shit out the fish… if there were any.”  He mutters to himself.  As Dean draws closer to him he reaches out his hand; “You have no patience.  Give it to me.” 

“I can do it.”  Dean grumpily sits next to him and reattaches the metal, reshaping it back into a hook.  He holds the line out to him when he’s finished and says; “These things seriously suck.”

Daryl spits the grass out of his mouth in annoyance.  “Yeah, no shit.”  He takes the line and piles it up with his own behind a tree and covers them with dead leaves.  He plans on coming back tomorrow and trying again, alone.  He balances on one of the rocks in the middle of the water, motioning to Dean to follow him as he starts darting down along the rock bed. 

It’s time to take a break, cool off, go swimming.  He knows exactly where to take Dean.

He’d found the place a while ago on one of his hunting trips.  The stream widened a bit and there was a small waterfall with a pool of water nestled between two large slabs of stone. 

“This is awesome.”  Dean whispers and pulls his shirt off in an easy motion.  He looks down at his pants and then up again and catches Daryl’s eyes.

“You feeling modest?”  Daryl is grinning from ear to ear. 

“No… just, don’t want to end up fighting for my life in my birthday suit.”  He glances up at the bank and looks back, “Seems… safe enough?”

Famous last fucking words, Daryl thinks but follows suit.  He leans his bow up against a rock and pauses to admire the view of Dean’s naked butt cheek wrangling his sweaty legs out of his jeans.  When he finally shimmies out of his pants he splashes into the water like a graceless rhino, his head dipping under the surface as he paddles out to the deepest part.

Daryl peels off his t-shirt and makes a promise to himself that he’ll craft them some bad ass knife necklaces for all other skinny dipping opportunities.  As it is he copies Dean and shoves both his best knives into his shoes and folds his clothes into a rumpled pile roughly within grabbing distance. 

The water is cold and rushing and it feels amazing.  Dean floats on his back but stops to spit water between his teeth at him as he comes near.

The end up making out near the waterfall.  Dean gnaws purple bruises along his collarbone, the words ‘marking his territory’ float through Daryl’s head but he doesn’t say it out loud. 

This is one of those times where Dean seems to be channeling his bad mood into intense sex and Daryl is pretty good with that.  He also has the best vantage point, back pressed up against the rock wall to scan the banks for walkers.  Dean seems to sense that thought and turns his back against Daryl’s front, though his hips don’t stop their hard grind against his cock.  The new angle has his dick buried in the cleft of Dean’s ass and the change in pressure is exquisite.  They’ve never actually had anal sex which is not something Daryl was actually feeling like he was missing much of until now.  Lube.  They had no lube.  Where could they get lube?  Would water work well enough for—

Dean is there and then suddenly bursting into action and it’s all Daryl can do but think, SHIT.  He sees the walker now, quietly perched on the edge of the stream. 

Dean swims to their pile of clothes in lightning speed and whips Daryl’s bow up and aims.  He misses the head shot and lodges the arrow in the side of its jaw.  The walker’s eyes bug out a little and then as if in slow motion the arrow loosens the tendons and the lower mandible unhinges and dangles loosely by one side.  The creature actually freezes and starts pawing at its face in annoyance or confusion.  Daryl hears Dean swear and then watches him crawl closer with knife in hand and finish the job.

It defiantly kills the mood.

On the walk back to the house Daryl stumbles his way through an apology that Dean waves off.

“Its fine man, we got it.  Nobody lost any toes.  We live to see another day.  The real question is what’re we gonna have for dinner?”         

Daryl goes with the topic switch because he knows he can make it up to him with this. “You ever tried frog legs?”                                                                                                                                                     

“Yeah, once.  Crispy little fuckers.” 

“Not too bad with a shitloada salt, pinch of cayenne and paprika.”

“Oh yeah?  Now you’re talking dirty to me.  Let’s catch some fucking frogs.”


	11. Chapter 11

 

The summer is in full swing and Daryl knows they’re not well stocked yet for winter.  They may not have as many mouths to feed as his last group, but they also don’t have as many hands to help.  Dean is a hard worker but he gets restless like a little kid.  He needs a project. 

“We should grow our own food.  Nothing complicated, just like tomatoes and beans and stuff.  There’s a spot out front I’ve been looking at.  We could clear it.”  Daryl watches Dean nod.

“Yeah, alright.  You’re thinking the canned tomatoes for seeds?  Maybe the snow peas too?”

“Hell yeah, but we should probably do some scavenging. My group, before,” He shrugs his shoulder behind him to vaguely gesture, “We were able to find useful herbs, some good for medicine even.”  He doesn’t talk about his group to Dean much but he’s mentioned them.  Carol had taught him about herbs.  Some of it had seemed like superstition but chewing on yarrow leaves had actually helped with a toothache that had been bothering him.   

“If we’re gonna talk domestic house projects then I’d like to mention my walker wind chime idea.  I was just thinking the other day we should collect tin cans and shit and string the lines up all along the property. It’d give us a little extra warning to hear em’ coming.”

“Walker wind chimes?”  Daryl smiles.  “Yeah, that’s actually a good idea.”  He shakes his head and laughs a little.  “Let’s make some wind chimes, Martha Stewart.”

 

~ // ~

 

Dean has been off for the last couple of days.  It’s not uncommon for him to get stuck in weird moods and Daryl has learned the best way to navigate them is not to mention it.  Sometimes he’ll try and distract him and other times he’ll just leave him alone entirely.  The up side is that there’s always something to kill, something to hunt, something to be done to keep them busy.

Daryl figures it’s a good idea when Dean tells him he’s going out to check the perimeter.  The chance to kill some walkers might help him blow off some steam and pull him out of his mood.  It doesn’t even cross his mind to worry about him. 

When evening starts to creep up on the edges of the sky and Dean still hasn’t returned, fear starts to worm a hole through his guts.  The crickets sound like they’re screaming in his ears as he trots through the woods.  His mind is already playing out all the horrible things that could have happened.  And then Merle is there, in his thoughts, cradling all his darkest fears.

_You didn’t think this was gonna last forever didjya?  He’s dead.  You’re gonna find his guts hanging from the trees.  Or maybe he just didn’t want to tell you what a loser you are and he just left ya.  Nothing lasts.  Not for you, not for me.  You can’t count on anyone.  I love you little brother, but you gotta face the facts._  

He feels his heart crawl up into his throat and ducks behind a cluster of trees.  Someone or something is coming towards him.  He holds his breath trying to discern from the sounds if it’s a walker or a person.  The leaves shuffle slowly under its feet and he leans out from behind the tree to see a gray faced walker in a faded purple shirt.  He watches as his arrow perfectly drills itself between the two eyes and the thing goes down.  He pulls the arrow out of its head and continues silently down the path.

When he finally finds Dean he sees his body leaning up against a tree not moving.  There is sticky old blood caked to the side of his head.  Daryl can’t breathe but his thoughts are loud as fuck screaming at him to be wary.  He circles back around the trees in a tight perimeter check looking for walkers or people.  When he comes up with nothing he approaches Dean again. 

_He might be turned.  He might be turned already little brother.  He’ll gnaw your fucking arm off of you let him._  

Merle’s warning mantra fills his head as he crouches down next to Dean, a knife in one hand and two fingers against his pulse point on his neck.  Dean’s body jolts at his touch and his eyes spring open.  They are greener then Daryl has ever seen. 

“Cas?”  He asks.

Daryl stares back at him accessing his expression more than the words.  His eyes are glassy like he’s out of it but not milky like he’s turning.  He feels sticky wet fingers brush the corner of his jaw and Dean leans in close as if to kiss him but just peers at his face.

“Castiel?  I thought you’d come here… I kept praying to you.  I mean before.”

The words finally filter in and they make no sense.  “Dean, you hit your head.”  Daryl says numbly as he grazes his hand over his matted wet hair, quickly inspecting the depth of the gash.  It’s not a shallow cut but he can’t see brains below and considers himself lucky for that.  It doesn’t mean they’re in the clear yet.  “Did you get bit?”  He asks though he doesn’t expect Dean to be very helpful and starts pulling the collar of his shirt back to trace the line of blood, looking for telling marks.

 “Sammy’s dead.  It was all for nothing.  Sammy’s fucking dead.”  Dean’s voice trails off in choked sobbing mumbles and Daryl gives up looking for bite marks. 

“It’s Daryl.  It’s me.  We’re getting you home, ok?  I’ll carry you if I have too.”   

“Home?”  He says the word in a watery hopeless way and Daryl can’t see his Dean at all.  This Dean is someone else, someone who doesn’t know him.  “The impala?  It burned.  Bobby wasn’t there.  I couldn’t find him.  I can’t do this alone.  It’s too big.  I can’t.”  He starts making incoherent choking noises again and it spurs Daryl into action.

_He’s fucking loony.  He’s cracked.  You’re never getting him back._

Daryl ignores Merle and pulls Dean to his feet.  He starts grappling him behind the knees so he can carry him and Dean balks.  He pushes against Daryl’s shoulder and sniffles a couple times as he gets his breathing back under control.  “Don’t carry me.  I can fucking walk, man.”  That sounds a little more like his Dean and Daryl swings his arm across Dean’s back and under his armpit to support him.

They stagger together along uneven ground back to the house.  When the shadow of the white house comes into view and they are only about a hundred feet from the door, Dean’s knees buckle and he hits the ground.  Daryl rolls down with him and finds himself suddenly wrestled to the earth with a forearm pressed against his windpipe.  Dean’s eyes are hard and squinting into his face, trying to see him better by the bit of light afforded from the moon.

“It’s Daryl!”  He whispers hoarsely, arms pulling uselessly at the strength against his throat.      

It’s a cold long three seconds before the arm is pulled away and Dean is grabbing at his shoulder and pulling him against him in an awkward hug as he whispers; “Shit.  Shit.  Shit.  Of course it’s you.  Of course.”


	12. Chapter 12

Daryl drags Dean into the house and swears as he bangs his knee against a chair while poorly navigating them through the kitchen and into the living room.  He deposits Dean on the sofa and lights the candles lining the fire place. 

Dean is still mumbling his apologies as he props him up and re-inspects the gouge on his head.  “I know you’re sorry.  You got a good arm on you even totally fucked up.  We gotta clean this up.  You stay with me, ok?  No nap time shit.”  He holds Dean’s chin as he speaks and stares carefully into his eyes until he sees the green gaze focus on him and he gets a wobbly nod in return.                      

Their first aid stock is extensive, on account of Dean’s insistence, not because he had believed he would need it himself but because that was how he and his brother had always rolled he said.  He had made jokes about being Daryl’s sexy nurse, minus the awesome cleavage. 

Daryl sorts through the bandages and snags a tube of super glue and cleaning supplies.  He can hear his heart thundering in his ears but he’s focused.  Fix Dean.  Take care of shit.  Find. Out. What. The. Fuck. Happened.

There are superficial scratches on his arms that don’t warrant his immediate attention but he notices them.  Dean’s jeans are caked in the mud but most of it seems to be from the fall they had out in the front yard.  He peels off his bloodied shirt, checking for bite marks or broken bones as he goes.  Dean’s injuries are clues that can’t lie.  In the back of his mind he is categorizing everything, trying to piece together what happened before he got there. 

“They always bleed a lot.” Dean murmurs.  “I mean head… injuries.”  He corrects and then shivers.

“Mm hmm.”  Daryl drapes a blanket over his shoulders and starts cleaning the worst of his wounds, once done, he can see the injury on his head isn’t as serious as he had feared.  It still merits the superglue stitches and he asks Dean to hold his hair back as he spreads a clear line along the cut.     

“This is gonna ruin my good looks isn’t it?” Dean tries for a charming smile but it seems to take too much effort and he drops the act with a tired huff of breath.  “Thank you.”  He whispers gruffly.

The usual concussion questions of ‘what day is it?’ and ‘Who is the president?’ are somewhat useless and Daryl skips ahead to the more obvious ones like; ‘Where are we?’  ‘Who am I?’ ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’ 

He has his middle finger held up on both hands and Dean smiles just a bit when he says; “Two.  Asshole.”

He grabs him a clean change of clothes and wraps him up in a blanket and plunks him down in the rocking chair while he works on getting the fire stoked up.    

Dean stares at nothing and fiddles with a stray string coming apart at edge of the blanket.  He’s outwardly impassive but Daryl knows he’s got a lot on his mind and is sorting through it all. 

Daryl sits quietly with him, giving both of them privacy in their thoughts.  All the terror and worry from earlier is finally receding.  He wonders if he should be pissed at Dean for being so careless but finds himself too tired to bother.  He focuses his attention on tending the fire and wishes like hell he had a cigarette to help with the come down from his adrenaline. 

When Dean finally speaks it’s over an hour later.  “Something is… wrong.”  He scrubs his hand across his face and sighs.  “Maybe… just with me.”  He barks a hallow laugh.  “I’m a damn mess.  I’m falling apart at the seams.” 

“You’re not a mess.”  Daryl stands up and retrieves the mug of hot tea he’s been boiling.  He hands it to him and gently brushes the nape of his neck with the flat of his hand. “You’re a survivor.”   He can feel Dean is on the edge, ready to unravel.  “Just tell me what’s going on.”  He finally prompts.       

Dean does.

He tells him about an Angel named Castiel.  A soldier who questioned his orders and put his life on the line to do what he thought was right.  An angel who became his friend.  Daryl listens, and like all of Dean’s stories it is fantastical and difficult wrap his head around. 

“Angels are mostly dicks, not all fluffy white wings and gold harps, soldiers, mindless assholes really.  Cas was different… sometimes.  I told you he took all the monsters away.  Which he did.  He did it for me and my brother… to make up for… a lot of other crap.”  Dean takes a long sip of tea from his mug and then continues; “Before he left, he took away my ability to dream.  It was a gift.  I used to… get nightmares, really bad ones.  I didn’t sleep most nights.  So when he left he wanted us to have a new life, pop out kids or whatever normal people do.  Sam wanted that apple pie shit but I knew… it just wasn’t meant for me anymore.”

“He took away your nightmares?  That’s some fairy godmother shit right there.” 

 “That’s kind of a weird image… thinking of Cas like…” Dean scrunches his face up in thought, “a fat old woman with a wand.”

“So how’d you get hurt?” In the back of his mind he had always pegged Dean as the kind of guy that was going to make it, outlive everyone.  Seeing him so out of control and raw made feel that everything he knew about Dean could be just one side of the story. 

“I had a dream, last week.  It was about Sammy.”  His voice cracks on his brother’s name but he keeps talking, “He said there was trouble.  That I had to do something.  Seeing Sam, talking to him, even just for a second… I can’t… be like I was before, when Sammy first… I can’t go through that… I can’t.”  He swallows thickly and his eyes shine with new tears.  He takes a long shuttering breath and wipes at his face with his free hand.

Daryl nods.  The faces of all the people he has lost play over in his mind as he listens to Dean try to breathe normally.  It’s not something he usually lets himself do and after a while he hears Merle’s voice telling him to fucking stop being a cry baby and get a hold of himself.  He does.          

Dean gets himself under control too and his voice sounds steadier as his anger bleeds through, “So I figured Cas did something, left some fucking loop hole in my brain.  I haven’t had a single dream since he left, why now?  Why this?  I just wanted some space to think, figure things out.  I was hunting and that son of a bitch, Cas… he called me, in the woods.   He fucking split my head open trying to, I don’t know what, talk, maybe.  Felt like a migraine, a seizure or something.  I must have cracked my skull on the way down.  A walker could have easily come and… but you found me.” He finally looks at Daryl and whispers; “But you found me.”

Daryl nods “Scared the shit out of me.  I’m not used to worrying about you.  What do you mean he called you?”

“Angel power mojo.  I don’t know.  It felt like he was poking around in my head and then something went _painfully_ wrong.  There used to be ways for me to call him if I needed him but none of those work now, they haven’t worked.  Where he was going they weren’t supposed to work.”  

“Alright.  This angel guy, what do you think he wants?”  Daryl tries to find the simplicity in the conversation.  He knows Dean believes everything he describes to him and he doesn’t think he’s lying exactly, it’s just hard to absorb it all in one sitting.

Dean shakes his head and shrugs tiredly, “Well, this zombie apocalypse shit wasn’t supposed to happen.  I don’t really know though.”

The conversation ends there and a couple hours later, after Daryl feels surer of Dean’s concussion, he hauls him off to bed. 

 

They don’t end up having to wonder very long though.  Castiel turns up bare ass naked on the bottom step of their porch two days later. 

 


	13. Chapter 13

 

Naked guy appears out of thin air, almost half landing on Daryl.  He has piercing blue eyes that freeze him in place as he croaks out; “Dean Winchester.”  At which point he promptly passes out in an unconscious heap.

It’s dramatic as shit.  Daryl narrowly avoids carving him up with his knife out of pure, terrified reflex, before he realizes he is a real, live, talking person and not a walker that somehow magically fell from the sky.

When Daryl recovers his senses, he gingerly searches for a pulse.  The skin is somewhat cold to the touch and there is wrongness about it that instantly makes him think of Dean’s angel friend.  His hair is a black tangled mess and it contrasts sharply with his fair features.  He can’t help thinking that when Dean had described Castiel to him, he had called him ‘a giant, awkward dork.’  He hadn’t mentioned the fact that ‘Cas’ was so striking.         

After Dean confirms his suspicions Daryl watches Dean gently gather the angel up into his arms and carry him into their house. 

“This is his signature move actually, not being naked but appearing out of thin air and scaring the shit out of everyone.  It’s an angel thing, it’s a Cas thing.”

Daryl hears the fondness in his voice and feels the strings of jealousy pull harder at his heart.  Castiel isn’t just a powerful angel on some unknown mission, he is a link to Dean’s past, his life before the turn, before Daryl.      

They find him clothes and wrap him up in a flannel sheet.    

Dean drags one of the rocking chairs into the bedroom and watches over him.    

Daryl knows Dean must have a million questions for the angel, but he can’t help feeling resentful as he watches Dean’s deliberate patience and quiet brooding.     

The day starts fading away and Daryl feels restless.

“Going out to see if I can get us some dinner.  I mean if you think you can handle…”  He points to the coma like body of the angel on the bed.

“Yeah, I should be here in case he wakes up.”  Dean glances up and studies his face for a couple seconds and then grabs Daryl by the elbow as he’s turning to go.  “Hey.”  He whispers.  His face contorts into a look of sympathy and it seems like he wants to say something reassuring but can’t find the right words.  Instead, he says; “Be careful.”  And kisses him.   

 

~ // ~

 

When he returns he hears voices in the living room and freezes without thinking.  Merle’s voice whispers at him to stay put.

_Don’t even breathe little brother.  They don’t know you’re here yet.  Can you trust him?  What are these two love birds whispering about behind your back?_

Castiel’s voice is gravelly and severe as if he hasn’t had to use it in a long time. “It will need to be made right, Dean.” 

“So, you’re saying that Sammy’s soul can’t recycle?  That he’s stuck?”

“They are all stuck, Dean.  Not just your brother, but yes.  The souls can’t even vacate the bodies when they become deceased.”

“Okay, reanimated people on a killing spree.  I get it.  I’ve seen that, but I’ve killed them.  When you get them in the brain they go down and they don’t get up again.” 

Castiel sounds tired but careful and persistent as he explains; “The souls leave the bodies yes, but they don’t enter oblivion as they should.  Without heaven and hell, oblivion is the only place they can go but they are wandering, likes ghosts but worse.  Sam was able to break through the veil to warn me of these events, but we need to find out what has blocked the gates.  You have a soul and are the only one I could ask this of… my grace prevents me from entering.  Angels were never meant to--”

Daryl grazes his foot against a chair and their voices stop instantly.  He enters the room purposely loud, announcing his presence with every step.      

Castiel is sitting on the sofa staring at him.  His eyes are the same fierce shade of blue and Daryl feels himself shrink a little under the penetrating gaze.  It seems unfair that the angel can make him feel like he’s intruding, even in his own home. 

 “This is Daryl.  He pretty much saved my ass this last year.”  

Daryl lifts his chin up slightly in Castiel’s direction, in greeting and says; “Hey.”

“Hello, Daryl.” He stares woodenly at him, and then breaks out into an alarming half-smile as if he just discovered he has facial muscles and decided to use them.  It’s disconcerting. 

The weird alien-robot act is not what he was expecting, though if he’s honest with himself a guy with a halo in a glowing white robe would have fit the bill better.          

The silence stretches out between the three of them and Daryl realizes neither of them have any intention of resuming their crazy conversation about souls and oblivion.  He’d been a bit resigned to Dean’s dangerous tendency to keep secrets when under pressure but it had never been with another person against him.  He feels his jealousy uncoil and a deep anger begins to seep in.

“I got dinner if you want to put it together.”  He holds the limp squirrels up by their tails to show Dean and then slinks off to the kitchen to skin them.   

The rodents go on the counter and then he’s lost in the task of removing their pelts and preparing the meat. 

 

 ~ // ~

 

Dean throws together a stew with fresh rosemary and carrots, which Castiel does not partake in.  They navigate silently around each other in the kitchen as they prepare the meal.  Daryl is irritated but hungry and the last thing he wants to do is lay into Dean while the angel watches them

They sit in the living room and for a while there is only the sound of spoons scraping bowls and water being guzzled down.  Then Dean burps loudly and it breaks the uncomfortable silence in the room.

“That’s damn fine stew if I do say so myself.”  Dean says with a hopeful grin directed at Daryl.

Daryl sneaks a glance at Castiel to see if poor manners upset an angel of the lord.  He looks completely unfazed, though.  “You don’t eat, angel?”  Daryl asks pointedly, being purposeful in not using his name or making eye contact with Dean.

“I do not require it.  I am in a weakened state, but food will not help me rebuild this vess- my body.”

“Cas knows why people are turning.”  Dean interjects quickly. 

Daryl spears Castiel with a suspicious scowl but turns to Dean and asks challengingly; “Yeah?  He got a plan for it too?  Save all our damn souls from oblivion and back?”

Dean licks his lips.  “Yeah.”  A guilty look crosses his face that he tries to hide immediately    

Castiel seems oblivious to the tension between the two and appears entirely absorbed in staring at Dean’s chest. 

Daryl can almost hear the ‘Hey, eyes up here!’ joke that Dean will lay on him in a minute, but Castiel cuts him off by turning his scrutinizing gaze from Dean to Daryl and saying; “Dean, I apologize.  I did not realize… you are… partnered.”  His head cocks to the side like an odd little bird as he studies something in front of them, that no one but him can see.  “I didn’t see these cords here before.  Well, I admit I didn’t think to look for them… with a… It doesn’t matter.  Your souls are linked.”

Dean turns three shades of red and his eyes get comically huge as he stutters out; “Woah… ah… Cas man, that’s a really awkward way to uh…”

Daryl sees embarrassment written all over Dean’s face and it cuts him deeper than he was expecting.  Dean is ashamed of him, of them.  They’ve been living in a bubble, a world outside of the old one’s judgment.  He wouldn’t call Dean his fucking soul mate, but he might have fallen a little in love with him.  He’d been feeling like maybe Dean was too, in a terrified shitless let’s-not-discuss-it-at-all sort of way.  He’d wrongly assumed that was because Dean sucked at talking about his feelings, not because he was ashamed of it.      

It’s too much and he’s completely overwhelmed.  The rejection bleeds humiliation through his entire core and he feels like he’s 8 again, being reprimanded in front of the entire class by his second-grade teacher for not doing his homework. 

“We’re faggots.”  His voice comes out as a raw hiss.  He glares at Dean and is standing before he even realizes it.  “You figured out our big fucking secret.”  He’s out the door and banging down the front steps seconds later.  He wants to disappear.   

He ends up hiding behind the crumbling tool shed near the old man’s grave.  He’s pissed and feels the tears gathering at the corners of his eyes as he sinks down against the dirt.  He hears Dean distantly calling his name but ignores him. 

Here, he can see patches of the inky black sky between the treetops with a smattering of stars and it calms him in its familiarity.    

It takes Dean almost a half hour to find him.  When he does he breathes heavily as he leans against his knees and mutters “Thank Christ.”  He slumps down next to Daryl, their elbows just barely touching. 

Dean watches him for a while, probably waiting for him to start yelling again.  He doesn’t have the energy, though.  He picks at a scab on his forearm until he feels the wet slide of blood under his fingernails.  

Dean clears his throat awkwardly. “Look, I’ve never made it work with anyone for longer than… two months, if that.”  He isn’t looking at him as he speaks, “It scares the shit outta me the way I… how much I… how easy it feels to be with you.”

He maneuvers himself slowly in front of Daryl and tentatively rests his left hand against Daryl’s bicep.  “I fucked this one up.  Cas and his x-ray vision shit threw me off.” He traces Daryl’s jaw with his thumb and first knuckle and whispers; “I ain’t ashamed of you… I’m fucking terrified.”  His eyes are shining a bit and Daryl can see the glint in the faint light.   

Daryl pulls him in close, knocking him off his balance and crushing him against his chest.  Dean pulls back and seals their mouths together.  The kiss is rough and fevered.  Daryl can taste salty tears as he traces his mouth down Dean’s throat.    

“I need you.  I need you.”  Dean whispers brokenly as Daryl claws at the button on his jeans.  It doesn’t even sound like sex talk.  It sounds like someone falling apart. 

They scramble against each other in the dirt and leaves.  Dean pushes his groping hands away and gets his mouth down around Daryl’s cock, making sure he’s the one giving.  Daryl threads his fingers in his hair and feels himself harden slowly in his mouth.  It’s been a shitty weird, night, and it takes him longer than usual to get his head in the game. 

When he comes with a shivering moan, it’s to the view of leaf-shaped shadows quivering in the wind, with a bruised purple night sky beyond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback, comments, whatever is always super appreciated.


	14. Chapter 14

Daryl is lying on his back with Dean’s head resting on his thigh.  “So, is Castiel gonna come busting out here looking for us?”

“Nah, I told him to stay inside.  Rest up.  Recharge the halo.”

 “I don’t like him.” 

“Oh yeah?  I couldn’t tell.”  He says sarcastically.  “He’s not that bad.”  Dean tips his head back trying to find Daryl’s eyes in the dark.  “He’s a weird guy but a tough dude to have on your side in a fight.”

“He’s come back here to ask us to fix all this shit for him, right?  Doesn’t sound so tough.”

“Yeah, about that.”  Dean sits up, shuffling his back against the shed while wiping the dirt off his jeans. “I was hoping I could warm you up to the idea.”

“Why don’t ya just be honest with me for once, huh?”  Daryl can’t keep the bitterness out of his voice.  He knows Dean thinks he’s doing him a favor by keeping him in the dark but it just pisses him off that Dean doesn’t see them as equals.  He doesn’t want to be protected like this, with secrets. “I heard you guys talking about souls being trapped and shit.”

Dean licks his lips and then tilts his head back and stares at the sky.  “Yeah.”  He says resigned.  “Alright.” He rolls his shoulders back and rests his wrists across his knees, fingers dangling towards the ground.  “So, when Cas rolled out of here with all the monsters he took demons too, and angels.  No more heaven and hell, top and bottom, cleaned out.  The tablet explained it as the souls would get recycled back into nature… or some happy hippie shit like that.”

Daryl twitches a little as Merle’s angry voice turns on at full volume in his head.  It takes him a couple seconds of concentration to drown him out. 

 _Ah_ _come on! I_ _didn’t see no_ _stinking bright light at the end.  This is bullshit._ _You_ _believing this crap?_ _You_ _listening to me boy?  I would tell you if there was a-_

When he hears Dean’s voice again he is reciting something using a sarcastically grand voice. “…And the earth shall be of one mind, one body one blah blah and all will be made complete after death.  That which was once separate will now be made whole.”  He rolls his eyes a little, “And all that vague prophecy babble.  We helped Cas do the ritual.  I thought it worked but then- with the virus happening, I wasn’t sure of anything.”  He scrubs a hand down his face.  “Cas says there’s a glitch in the system.  The souls are trapped in between and piling up on the wrong plane.  It’s pretty much why the dead can’t fully die.  There’s a place my soul can travel too, figure out what the fuck happened.  He’ll watch over my body while I’m there.  He’ll be my anchor.”

“Jesus.”  He breathes.  Merle has finally shut up so he can focus for half a second and the first thing that comes to mind is how massively over his head all of this is--prophecies, rituals fucking angels and now lost souls.  He’d had himself solidly convinced that Merle was somehow stitched into his subconscious, just an echo not actually a ghost or anything like that. 

_Of course, I’m real.  Fuck you._

_Fuck you_.  He thinks loudly back at Merle and wonders idly how he’ll manage not to go insane with his consciousness so divided. 

He can feel Merle’s thoughts pushing at the edges of his mind now as if his belief in his realness gives him strength.  He sinks into one of Merle’s memories by accident and feels his heart start racing as he sees the blurry image of the governor across the room.  There’s a couple words between them and then a gun aimed at him.  There's no sound, just the blinding explosion as his throat splits open and he’s knocked back.  He’s gurgling, drowning and the darkness that follows is claustrophobic and horrible.

Merle is showing him how he died.        

_There was nowhere to go._

He’s swimming through the darkness now and when he reaches the surface he sees himself.  He doesn’t want to do this again.  Merle’s vision is milky and white and he can see himself sobbing and pushing against his chest.   _Don’t make me watch this_ , he thinks hard at Merle _.  I did what I had too.  Please.  Please.  Please._   The memory flows back over him and he feels himself fall back against the ground and then there’s a pinch in his head as the knife cuts into his brain, like a switch going off.  It feels almost good, a relief. 

Daryl doesn’t get a second to contemplate that as he feels the space inside him unfold, and for a minute, he feels limitless and open.  Then there’s a wall.  It slams up against him and he loses his senses entirely for an instant.  When he comes back to himself he sees what made Merle stay.  It’s him, in his shock and horror, on his knees, hysterical and screaming at the sky.  He can see there is a space inside him, a giant black hole that whispers and calls.  Merle knows he can fit in it. 

 _Couldn’t just leave you.  Not that time.  Not when it really counted._           

Then he’s back in his own mind again and Dean is cradling his skull and pulling on the front of his shirt with a look of desperate terror.  He’s talking to him too but all he can hear is a high pitched buzzing noise as his ears adjust.  He grabs Dean’s arm and tries to sit up as everything comes back into focus and the buzzing fades away.  “I have to go with you, to the gates.”  He’s panting and wild-eyed.  “We have to go together.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate hearing what you guys are thinking. Comments are great.


	15. Chapter 15

They agree to discuss with Castiel tomorrow about the gates and who has a ticket to where but it's clear Dean hasn’t changed his mind.    Daryl is exhausted and neither of them is in a mind to argue about it anymore.

Dean has his arm wrapped around his shoulder as they walk back into the house but he’s not holding him up, more like holding on.

 “He showed you who killed him?”  Dean’s voice is low with an edge of lingering dismay at Daryl’s vague explanation of Merle’s vision.    

“Yeah.”  He doesn’t say he’d had a pretty good idea of who it was already.  It isn’t thoughts of revenge that have him so turned around. 

Dean guides him through the silent house and into their frequently shared room.    

They don’t always end up sharing a bed due to both their odd sleeping habits but with Castiel occupying the other room it’s an obvious choice.    Dean is a notorious blanket stealer and rolls around on the bed like he owns the place but Daryl isn’t thinking about that now.  He is relieved at his presence and allows himself to be led and tucked in without a word.

Dean holds him tight to his chest and curls his arms around him. 

“He didn’t want to leave me… even though I had to… ‘cause he turned.”  Daryl can’t even say the words.  The thing he killed wasn’t his brother, it had his face but it wasn’t him.  There is a tiny part of him that didn’t believe that, though.  What he had to do was unforgivable, he should have found a way to save him.  He should have done more.  Merle didn’t hold it against him, though.  He forgave him in an instant and Daryl felt it, he felt it all.  In his own way, Merle had loved him more than anyone.  Maybe Daryl had always known that. 

It leaves him reeling.  He can’t tell if he’s shaking or if Dean is rocking him but it doesn’t matter.  He is safe here. 

Dean runs his fingers along the vertebrae in his neck and combs carefully through his hair.  He’s humming.  He doesn’t recognize the tune because his thoughts are muddled with sleep. 

As he drifts away he realizes the song is Back in Black by ACDC and its Merle‘s voice that is rumbling in his ear, not Dean.

 

He’s not surprised when wakes up in a dream.  He knows it’s a dream because Merle is fourteen and he’s still the same age.  Merle is leading him through the forest, talking over his shoulder as he goes.  The words are hard to catch but he seems to be warning him.  The forest ends abruptly and they’re standing in a field of cotton.  The sky is an odd shade of yellow.  Dean is standing with his back to him.  When he turns he is clutching his heart, a red stain blooms across his chest and blood leaks out between his clenched fingers.  He hears the crack of his knees as they hit the hard earth.  Daryl rushes forward to grab at his shoulders and finds himself holding him up. 

“Sammy’s gone and it’s my fault.” Dean’s eyes are wild like an animal.

Daryl knows what this dream is about as he feels the words leave his lips, “You’re not leaving me.  I’m not letting you go with him.  I need you here.”  He shakes his shoulders and watches in horror as Dean’s eyes film over and his skin grays.  And then he’s screaming because Dean is gone and he’s holding just a husk.

The screaming pulls him into reality and it’s sudden that he can feel the hoarseness of his vocal cords and strong arms holding him down.  Noise filters in slowly and he can hear Dean talking.

“I got it Cas.  It’s just a nightmare. Go back to your room.  He’s fine.”  The arms loosen a little.  “He’s fine.”   

He wriggles out of the hold entirely and takes deep steadying breaths as he paces the bedroom.  He can’t look at Dean.  He feels a bad mixture of dread and abandonment, as if Dean choosing his brother over him is something inevitable, only a matter of time.  He knows this is the other reason he wants to follow Dean to the gates.  He wants to help Merle but he also wants to make sure Dean comes back. 

“You want to talk about it?”  Dean asks earnestly though Daryl can see the irony in the statement coming from him.

He doesn’t answer and Dean asks “Was it about Merle?” 

He nods because that is easier to deal with. 

“I know you want to help him.”

This sounds like Dean wavering and Daryl takes the opening.  “I’m going to the gates with you.  I’m not sitting this one out.” 

Dean’s face twists up into a look of frustration but he swallows the words with an effort that is obvious.  “Cas may not have the juice to send us both.”

“Then we wait for him to get it.  I’m not sending you in there without me.”

“Fine.”  Dean’s face is sour but he stands up with his arms loose by his sides.  “Cas says there's risks.”

“There’s always risks.” 

“Yeah, but this is loose your soul type of shit.  We could get stuck there… go insane never come back again.  You ready for that?”      

“As if living here has been some fucking picnic? Yeah, I’m ready.”  Daryl gets up in his space with his head bowed.  He bumps his forehead against Dean’s and runs his thumb down his bare forearm.  “I’d follow you inta hell and back.”

Dean’s voice is watery when he whispers back; “You don’t even know how true that could be.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm writing as I go so comments/suggestions are super appreciated. I have a vague idea of where things are heading but the details aren't clear yet.


	16. Chapter 16

I created a pinterest board (basically an online picture collage) for my story. I know it's not as good as a new chapter but it's pretty, sexy, sad, creepy and lovely... just like I'm trying to make my story!

 

[Daryl/Dean](https://www.pinterest.com/avocadopearl/daryldean/)

(in case that is being weird here is the url:  https://www.pinterest.com/avocadopearl/daryldean/ )

 


	17. Chapter 17

 

 

The angel can teleport.  He doesn’t call it teleporting, he claims he has giant wings on another dimension that help him soar through this one, but it looks a lot like teleporting because he will disappear and then reappear with sand in his hair and an arm full of sticks or whatever the fuck ancient Viking runes look like.

He had surprised both of them by agreeing quickly that Daryl’s soul ought to accompany Dean’s.  It was then a matter of him collecting the right ingredients for the ritual.  This included some sort of angel treasure hunt that he claimed would take about another week. 

 

Daryl watches in silent awe as Dean draws large symbols with white spray paint all over the walls of the spare bedroom.  The ingredients Castiel has collected so far are half ground up in a large bowl in the center of the room. 

Dean had explained that the symbols were for protection, warding.  He also told him that magic didn’t exist anymore and they would have to activate everything with some of Castiel’s grace.  Grace was the equivalent of an angel’s soul or power source. 

Daryl stands in the doorway and watches Dean barely flinch as he cuts a knife across his hand like he’s done it a thousand times.    He feels the hairs stand up on his arms in alarm.  Dean glances up at him, sensing him watching and says; “Some wards need to be stronger than others.  This will hide my body from anyone who might want a free ride on an empty vessel.”  He draws a weird little squiggle of blood in the middle of one of the painted symbols with his finger.  “You too.  Come here.” He beckons.

Daryl feels the shiver race up his arms and across his neck but he crosses the room and stands next to him.  Dean’s eyes are a sharp shade of green.  There is a challenge behind them as if he’s saying ‘This is my fucked up life, you still want to be a part of it?’

Daryl holds out his hand for the knife. “Your dad teach you all this stuff? Blood warding and shit?”

“No… some of it.  Magic… is fucked up.  Cas taught us some new tricks.  Dealing with demons mostly.  When you deal with demons you need all the tricks you can get.”

Daryl makes a shallow cut on the meat of his thumb and flexes it a couple times until the blood pools.  Dean holds his wrist and presses his index finger into the wound.  He makes the same squiggly mark in the center of a symbol next to the first. 

“Nice work Picasso.”  Daryl mumbles because he wants to break the tension. 

If this is Dean’s life; he can handle it and he wants him to know that.

 

 ~ // ~

 

“Is he gonna just pop in while I’m taking a shit?  What the fuck?”

Dean smiles.  “He might… but probably not.  You noticed he sucks at personal space, huh?”

Daryl rolls his eyes because that was putting it mildly.  What he had thought was some kind of weird flirting thing seemed to instead be a complete lack of understanding about human socializing.  Which made sense, because he wasn’t human.  Still, his tendency to sneak up on either of them or appear suddenly way too close, almost out of nowhere, was annoying.  “You couldn’t train him better?”

Dean scoffs.  “I tried.”

They’re sitting out on the front porch watching the night creep across the sky.  Dean has his two favorite handguns spread out in pieces and is meticulously cleaning each part.  Daryl wonders if it might be some ritual for going into battle because Dean hardly uses the guns; the noise usually causing more trouble and bullets being in short supply.   It also could be an outlet for his nervous energy. 

Castiel has been gone most of the day. 

The silence stretches out between them for another twenty minutes or so.  “Gon’ to smoke.”  Daryl warns him as he pulls the Altoid tin from his pocket and reverently opens the lid. 

He had found a small stash of hand rolled Tabaco cigarettes on a run and been savoring each one, trying to make it last.  Now, there are only three left and as his thumb grazes the paper he thinks- _fuck it._   He is going to smoke them all.

Inhale.  Exhale.  He watches the smoke twist away in the fading light and lets his mind go blissfully blank.

Dean grunts next to him after his third smoke is half done, the noise then turns into a chuckle.  “Should I be jealous?”  He asks. 

“Huh?”  He looks over at him but can’t make out his expression in the darkness, just the slope of his shoulders.

Dean lumbers towards him and their elbows bump as he sits next to him on the steps.  “Looks like you’re at church over here… or about to cream your god damn pants.”  Dean’s voice drops low and filthy and his hand slides in quick against Daryl’s inner thigh. 

Daryl takes the invitation and tips his head back and winds his fingers through Dean’s hair, curling in deep, pulling his mouth possessively towards his own.  He miscalculates the distance and accidentally bumps their noses together. 

Dean huffs a laugh against his cheek as he feels the sharp sting of hot ashes flutter across his knuckles from his forgotten cigarette.  He stubs the burning embers against the porch step but doesn’t pause in his attempt at better aligning their mouths for a teeth filled kiss.  Dean comes alive as soon as his tongue twists against his, taking control of the kiss, claiming every corner.

There is a loud crash from somewhere in the house and they pull apart in alarm.

Walkers.  In.  The.  Fucking.  House. 

But it’s not.  It’s just Castiel. 

When they both clamor into the living room they see him standing in the middle of the room.  He’s holding a broken lamp with an annoyingly perplexed look on his face.        

“Jesus Cas.”  Dean sounds more relieved than pissed.  “You hurt?  You didn’t land right?”

“I’m fine, Dean.”  He looks up with a suddenly stricken expression though and holds out a piece of the destroyed ceramic base.  “I broke the lamp.”

“Yeah, you did.  It’s okay, though.  It’s just a lamp.”  He jerks his head at the broom in the kitchen and grabs Castiel by the elbow and steers him over to the sagging recliner in the corner.

“I haven’t had to use a vessel in a while.  It’s frustrating that my wings manifest… like this.  I got the virgin’s thigh bone, though.  I only need one more ingredient.”

“Good.  Good.  That’s good.”

Daryl takes the hint and retrieves the broom.  He tunes out Dean’s prattling chatter.  The more time he spends with the two of them the more he feels his initial jealousy was misplaced.  They have an odd sort of intimacy between them that seems to be based on circumstance and not on longing.  

Later, Dean hustles him off to their bedroom with some excitement in his eyes.  Daryl assumes he intends to finish what they started on the porch but he surprises him with a dusty bottle of expensive looking whiskey. 

“I asked Cas to keep an eye out for something special.  He said he found it in this guy’s place in Russia, rich dead dudes and their treasures.”  Dean goes to the dresser and pulls out two glass tumblers carefully wrapped in newspaper.  They look like they are made of crystal and have geese etched delicately on the sides.

“Shit says it was bottled in 1915?”  Daryl whistles low, impressed as fuck.

 “Yeah, and we're gonna play poker.”  Dean pours two full glasses and throws the deck of cards out on the bed and with goofy grin he adds, “The sexy kind.”   

_Romantic son of a bitch._  

Merle actually sounds sincere and Daryl can’t help but agree. 

They are gonna have fun tonight.   


	18. Chapter 18

The last ingredient, Castiel announces the next morning, is in Egypt and the journey will tire him enough he wishes Daryl would accompany him and assist in protecting him.

It brings up an entire set of worrisome thoughts Daryl hadn’t even bothered contemplating. Was the virus all over the world? Had it not been contained in America? Egypt? What the fuck was in Egypt?

_God’s asshole._ Merle’s cackling laughter echoes in his head.

“Yes.” Castiel replies while staring directly at him. “The virus spread worldwide.”

Daryl feels goose bumps shiver across his arms at the realization that the angel might have pulled the question out of his thoughts.

He breaks the creepy stare but only to turn its laser glare to Dean as he continues speaking; “It was created in a lab and released into the public as a germ warfare experiment. It mutated, adapted to environments and traveled quicker than they anticipated. That is why I cannot heal them. It is not of god’s creations.” His eyes soften at the edges and he looks suddenly mournful and full of regret. “I did try.”

It’s the most human Daryl has ever seen him look and he can’t help imagining the angel traveling from person to person trying to heal them, it softens him tiny bit. “So... when we leav’in?” He glances at Dean briefly, searching his face for a warning or disapproval of any kind.

Dean wrinkles his nose a little and sighs; “You gonna be okay taking him angel express?”

“Yes, I will keep him safe Dean.”

 

~ // ~

 

What Daryl learns later, is that traveling great distances via angel wings, sucks. Dean had been vague on the topic, describing the experience as ‘weird and uncomfortable.’ Daryl understands now that his evasiveness was probably just standard Dean Winchester bravado.

As soon as he feels earth under his feet again he stumbles and goes down on one knee and dry heaves into the sand. Its hot as fuck too, like stepping into an oven. His guts feel like they've been pushed through a meat grinder. When he can spare a chance to look up, Castiel is looming over him with his face bent too closely towards him, inspecting him. “I apologize.” And reaches with two pointed fingers towards his face, “I can take the pain away if you'd like?”

Daryl quickly scoots away shaking his head and climbing to his feet. “No, no. S'Okay. Don't waste the mojo.” He mumbles uncomfortably and is stunned into further silence as he takes in their surroundings.

The desert is a vast sea of sand with a series of pyramids and statues dotting the horizon. They are standing in front of a stone courtyard and stairs leading up to the entrance of one of the pyramids. In the distance behind them Daryl can see a broken airplane wing jutting straight up out of the ground. There are burnt metal pieces of debris littered around them, including a couple corpses mostly buried in the sand.

His bow is up and at attention in seconds.

“I don't sense any life here, but be alert.” Castiel says to him and then turns and walks with purpose towards the stone columns.

The bodies do not stir as they walk past, the flesh has been picked clean off most of them and their bones are sun bleached. This is a graveyard.

There are giant seated carved figures lining the entrance as they approach. Ancient guardians Daryl thinks uncomfortably. The doorway is a black mouth, shadowed with no hint as to what lies inside. Castiel disappears into it first. Daryl takes cautious steps behind him and waits just past the threshold for his eyes to adjust.

There are no surprises waiting inside for them just a long corridor stretching endlessly ahead. They both have to stoop a bit as they walk along, the hallway winds its way downwards as they continue.

Daryl shines his flashlight across the stone carvings on one of the walls, it looks like a drawing of a half dog creature riding a boat. “What we looking for exactly?”

“Ideally the heart of the loyal... but I could settle for a lung or even a liver.” Castiel answers gravely.

“Not 'nough of those in Georgia?”

“None that hold as much power. This ancient race of humans believed in an afterlife so purely, it remained ingrained in every cell of their body. The organs used correctly in ritual, contain powerful magic. The preservation of their bodies here is convenient as well.”

The hallway finally opens up into a large room. There is a giant stone coffin in the center but Castiel bypasses it to stand in front of a huge mural on the other side. The mural depicts a creature in the middle with giant wings and people crowded around worshiping.

Castiel nods knowingly. “Isis.” He says once and traces the wings of the carving with his fingers, long minutes tick by as the angel moves about scrutinizing but seeming to be doing nothing. Daryl feels his adrenaline dwindling into boredom.

After about fifteen minutes he asks “Need help?”

“Be silent.” Castiel say curtly.

After another fifteen minutes pass by with Castiel muttering to himself and seeming to be under a great deal of strain, there is a grinding sound deep in the stone and a panel is revealed in the floor. “There.” Castiel heaves the stone panel aside with little effort and peers down inside.

_No fucking way, Indian Jones._ Merle warns but he doesn't have to tell Daryl twice. There is no way he is climbing inside there.

Castiel stares him dead in the eye, seemingly oblivious to his terror and says brightly, “We're in luck.”

“Yeah, lucky us.” He gingerly inches towards the edge pointing his flashlight into the hole. It looks dusty and he can't see well enough to tell how far of a drop it is.

Castiel peers inside with his weird angel night vision and then without a word swings both his legs into the pit and drops inside.

“You, okay?” He calls out thinly.

“Yes, I'm fine. Not a lot of head room down here though, more like a crawl space. You better stay up there.”

Daryl paces the entire time he is gone. When he reappears he is sliding two ceramic urns out of the hole and then climbing out himself one armed. “This one will work... but just in case.... this one will be back up.”

They look exactly the same to Daryl but he doesn't care. “Great, let's get out of here.” He is surprised he's actually eager to fly again but the place is creeping him out enough that he is and very ready to leave.

At this Castiel's face falls a little. “We can't yet.” He says quickly. The next words out of his mouth sound like a poorly delivered lie, “I mean... My powers are weakened by the shape of the pyramid. We must wait until we are in open air again.”

Daryl is on alert instantly. The angel is stalling. Why? His senses sharpen as he follows him silently. The gears in his mind working quickly as he moves. The place was a ghost town. Castiel hadn't needed him at all. What did he really want?

As they near the entrance Castiel turns around to face him. The light is so bright behind him Daryl can't make out his facial features, only the outline of his shoulders. It makes him step back a bit automatically.

“What I intend to inform you, you will not want to hear...” He says haltingly like a confession. Castiel approaches him slowly and his eyes come into focus as he nears, his face looks earnest for a moment and then it clouds over and turns into one of determination. “Dean is very dear to me, but I am afraid I must warn you... that which makes you strong here could make you weak on the other side.”

“That a fuckn' riddle now?” Daryl palms his sweaty hand across his pant leg nervously, hating every second of the conversation.

“When I found Dean in hell his soul was mangled, abused but it still had good in it. I rebuilt his body but the hell fire had permanently seared portions of his soul. The bond you have created with him has allowed him to mend in places but there are gaps. Sam has been deteriorating more and more rapidly and I fear if you are forced to stay there too long...” He turns away from Daryl now and leans against the wall. “He may become trapped and you tethered to him, breaking the bond will be the only way to survive.”

He wants to punch him on principle but his thoughts are swimming with words like 'hell' and 'the bond you created' so instead he spits out; “You got me halfway 'cross the world to tell me to... stop carin' 'bout him?”

“I am a soldier of god. If I could, I would go alone. I wouldn't risk either of you, but I know Dean will see this through and I can count on him. He will need you and I can see you are strong enough but you must consider yourself if things... change.”

Daryl sweeps his hair out of his eyes and can't keep the quiet rage out of his voice as he says; “That's the difference 'tween us then, I ain't goin' leave him behind.”

“It is a warning. That is all.” Castiel puts his hand abruptly on his shoulder and they reappear on the front porch and Daryl is bent over dry heaving again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all the people that poked me to write more. I love these characters and I have plans for this story still. I didn't mean to take such a long break from it-- just sometimes real life can get in the way.


	19. Chapter 19

Daryl is swaddled in the blue afghan blanket, sitting with his back leaning against the headboard when Dean slips into the bedroom.

“Cas said everything is all set. Sent me in here to tell you to get our six hours of beauty rest before we go.” He pulls off his jeans and shrugs out of a couple layers of cotton before climbing onto the bed next to him.

“Do ya trust me?” Daryl wiggles his foot under the blanket and stares at it instead of making eye contact. He knows he'll follow Dean anywhere. He'll stand by his side and cut down every damn asshole that gets in their way. His loyalty isn't bound by a need to know every secret Dean holds closest but he can't help but feel betrayed when Dean's secrets put him in danger and keep him from knowing what he is walking into.

“Yeah.” Dean answers, shoulder tensing next to him.

“If we don't make it back... if anything happens to me... it's on me, not you.” He hates that Dean still feels responsible for him.

Dean scoffs.

“I mean it. We do this together. We share this.” The angel's words echo in his thoughts, how he'd found him in hell and rebuilt his body. He wants to know what that means but more then anything he wants to feel important enough to be told.

Dean sighs, and then in a soft exhausted whisper he says “I'll try, man.”

“Castiel... he told me...”

“I know.” Dean cuts him off before he can finish. “Cas is worried that uh- I mean he mentioned to me he pissed you off--- like I hadn't noticed.“ Dean slips off the bed and folds his arms against his chest as he stands awkwardly. “I trust you. It's not that I don't. What we have... when I am with you... I feel like all that other crap that happened to me doesn't matter and I want to be _that_ guy. The normal guy.”

“It doesn't matter to me. I just want to keep us safe—if I can.” He mumbles.

Dean sighs hearing the defeat in his voice. “Yeah, yeah. I know.”

Daryl draws his knees up to his chest protectively. “I ain't try'n to-”

“Sammy died before. I sold my soul to bring him back. He died on my watch-- cause I fucked up. I failed him. I made a deal with a demon. He got to live and I got one year and then I went to hell. I died.” His voice shakes with restrained emotion. “My soul spent... f-forty years being m-messed up in there until Cas pulled me out... barely a year had passed up here. Cas says my soul is all scarred up from it. But hell is gone... nobody else will have to--”

Daryl unfolds himself and slips off the bed, his fingers curl around the meat of Dean's forearm and try to pull him in close. Dean resists.

“I'm a killer.” His eyes are laser sharp with self disgust as he glares past him at the wall. “They twisted me inside out and that was all that was left.” His voice falls to a whisper as he says; “I'm... n-nothing. Why would you want to hear that? Why would you want to be with s-someone who-”

Daryl covers his mouth with his hand, stopping the words. He feels regretful that he had to ask Dean to open this wound up and share it with him but relieved that it's been said. “You're mine.” He whispers , his hand falling on Dean's shoulder to steady him. He can't take away his shame, only remind him that he is human and cherished.

“I wanna be with you cause you make all this shit worth it.” He laces his fingers behind Dean's neck, drawing his forehead against his, eyes cast down as the words tremble from his lips with raw honesty; “I will always be by your side. We will finish this, together. See it through... to whatever happens”

He hears the click of Dean's throat as he swallows loudly and then his arms come up to rest on his back. When he starts to shake, Daryl holds him tighter and lets them sink to the floor. He wraps himself protectively around him and tries to absorb all the tremors as his shoulders shake with silent sobs.

It's a while before they make it back to the bed. It's even longer before Daryl can relax and close his eyes. When he starts to dream it's with no awareness, just the sensations wash over him.

He is standing in the broken shell of the church where he first spoke to Dean. One of the walls has caved in and the ceiling is missing with patches of night sky beyond. He hears a glass knocked off a table and shatter behind him. When he turns to look he finds himself frozen in place unable to do so. A shadow falls to his left and he feels a presence.

“So this is my brother's new guard dog.” The words flow around his head but aren't spoken out loud.

He finds he can move again but when he turns to look there is no one there. He holds his bow up at eye level and peers around the broken pews, searching. He feels a hand ghost down his sweaty arm and he turns to slap it away “Keep your grimy hands to yourself.” He growls, trying to control his fear.

There is a snort of a laugh and then he hears the voice again “Isn't that what you and my brother have been up to? Laying grimy hands all over each other?”

“I'm gonna protect him.” The unspoken 'unlike you' hangs between them.

“Just remember this,” The voice speaks for the first time directly into the shell of his ear, “Dean loved me first... and he always will.”

Daryl wakes breathless and scared but he can't remember why, something about green eyes.

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

“Are you ready?” The angel blinks and stares at them.

Dean nods. “Better be. Right?” He turns to Daryl with a half eye roll, half reassuring smirk. Daryl nods back at him.

“Good.” Castiel begins the spell by chanting in a combination of latin and dead angel language. It all sounds like gibberish to Daryl. He watches as he reverently coats a silver blade with a sticky layer of tree sap, and rolls it in a dark mixture.

A wind whisles through the room and the symbols on the walls start to shimmer. Castiel slices the blade across his wrist and a glowing blue liquid pools out. His eyes glow with the same intensity and a high pitched noise buzzes at the back of Daryl's ears and throat.

Dean had explained to him that the ritual would be using Castiel's grace to create a cord to tether their souls to him, instead of their bodies. When the noise starts to boil in his brain and the room gets hot and a sufficating pressure slams up hard on his ribcage, he starts to have doubts. Then Dean is there, covering his eyes with a warm hand.

“Don't look at it.” He commands and crouches down pulling him with him. “Didn't know he'd super nova. Keep your eyes closed.”

Daryl slams his eyes shut and feels the pressure on his ribcage subside with the added layer of darkness. The glowing symbols remain as navy shapes floating behind his eyelids.

There is a shift in the base of his spine and a fluttering sensation across his neck. He hears Dean's intake of breath as he echos the sound and then everything is different.

 

~ // ~

 

When he opens his eyes again he feels a punch in his gut at the sight of his brother standing before him. “Merle!” He's on his feet in seconds and pulls his brother into a bear hug.

“Hey, baby bro.” Merle whispers with fondness and then snorts near his ear. “Where the fuck are we?”

“You ain't been paying attention lately, huh?” Daryl steps back. “We're dead, for a bit.” He notices Castiel for the first time and stops in his tracks. “Woah.”

The angel's body is translucent, the details of him blurry and hard to focus on. Inside of him there is a massive spinning orb of light. It glitters and swirls like a planet as Daryl watches it. He can see a tiny thread, spider web thin, connecting to his own chest. “His grace?” He asks almost hypnotized by it's beauty.

“Yeah.” Dean's voice is cold and Daryl turns to look at him.

Dean's shoulders are squared off and Merle's eyes are slitted with contempt. “So you're the cowboy been bumping uglies with my brother and turned him queer.”

Daryl feels his eyes roll back hard in his head. “The fuck-” He starts but Dean cuts him off.

“Oh yeah, you better watch out.” He muscles himself in close, pushing against Daryl, eyes blazing. “I got the power to turn the straightest to the gayest with just a look, sweatheart.” Dean winks at him but his lip is curled into a snarl.

Daryl feels his brother's intentions uncoil and he pushes him back before he can strike. “Merle! Fuck off! Jesus, stop being a dick for second.”

“You weren't like that before, is all. You liked pussy.”

“He didn't do nothing. Shut up, man.” He runs his fingers through his hair and notices he's shaking a little. He turns to him and pushes his finger against his chest and says; “You my brother but you don't get a say in this. You either with us or not.”

“Hey, don't ruffle your feathers none, I'm just making an observation.” He says with a forced laugh, trying to back paddle.

“Well, keep em' to yourself.” 

“Real peach of a brother you got there, Daryl.” Dean throws one last glower in Merle's direction before turning away.

“What're we looking for?” Daryl asks. The room has the same translucent quality as Castiel. It's faded in pale shades of blue, while they stand out in sharp contrast with full color.

“He said we'd know-- that it wouldn't belong.” Daryl can hear the annoyance in his voice regarding Castiel vaguness but he follows him down the hallway and into the kitchen. The room is much bigger then it's supposed to be and instead of the back door, an earth packed tunnel stretches out before them.

“That's new.” Dean mutters pausing to peer into the semi darkness. There is a light at the end but it is far in the distance.

Daryl brushes his shoulder against Dean's and breathes in the scent of wet earth. There are bits of rocks and what looks like roots sticking out at odd angles.

Merle grunts in suprise behind them and he turns to see that the kitchen is gone all together and there is just an earthy wall behind them.

“Just one direction then.” He says simply though his heart is hammering in his chest with anxiety.

“Okay. We go this way.” Dean leads them deeper into the tunnel.

 

 

 


End file.
